


Felix's tale

by Roadsterguy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acceptance, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Blood Magic, Brotherly Love, Darkspawn, Fade Rifts, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Letters, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, The Breach (Dragon Age), Unrequited Lust, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadsterguy/pseuds/Roadsterguy
Summary: Felix had his own story; the story of a beloved brother who was not truly his brother, and the story of a life too short.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Kudos: 4





	Felix's tale

Felix did not favor men romantically. And he was dying. Both of those situations were out of his hands, beyond his control, so he was less distressed about them than one might imagine.

The former was not _inherently_ distressing, of course. Merely complicating in context, and that context was named Dorian Pavus.

From the first day his father had dragged that sullen and defiant boy, just a little older than his only son, home in his carriage, Felix had warmed to Dorian. He had always found it difficult to make friends, and had longed for a sibling - but his parents were the highest of high class, and it simply wasn't done to have more than one heir. It suggested that the family was not confident in their ability to make their offspring excel, and touched on some strange and irrational beliefs in younger siblings diluting bloodlines, as if there was only so much magic in a family to go around. Maker knew he had taken almost none of it from his parents.

Yet here was a sibling for him, an older brother, as if brought as a generous gift by his father. And what an extravagant gift Dorian was! Brash, egotistical, pompous, wearing armor of braggadocio as bold and shimmering as it was fragile. Felix delighted in observing it, poking at it, enjoying its artifice, and he enjoyed even more when Dorian relaxed enough, in their household - in the big, bright room they shared - to shed it, now and then, to show the shy, caring boy underneath.

There were rumors about the two of them spread from the household slaves to the soporati - how could there not be? Dorian did not hide his predilections, and that was almost more of a scandal than having them in the first place. And although he did more to conceal their direction when it came to Felix - and, perhaps, Felix's father, to a certain extent? - Felix was not completely insensible; he knew well that Dorian had feelings for him. But Felix simply had no urges in that direction. He felt, sometimes, a bit guilty that he was using Dorian's affections for his own purposes. But might there be an intersection between romantic and fraternal love where they could comfortably dwell? An intersection made of warm embraces, sneaking sweets up to Dorian while he was studying just to see that grateful smile in return, long discussions that went late into the night, quietly around the light of candles or, when Dorian was feeling expressive, mage-fire? Felix hoped so.

And yet, it was he who drove Dorian off. Indirectly, of course, and unintentionally. Felix's only role in the whole sad affair had been to be in the carriage, to fail to fend off the Darkspawn with his knife (his magic too weak to be of any use), to feel their fangs and talons in him, their evil venom fill him, their poison turn his blood. He remembered nothing of the ride back, only of coming to himself in that familiar childhood bed, Dorian's face looking worriedly down at him before flashing a tight, forced smile on seeing him return. Blood magic to bring him back, stabilize him, and he could tell from the warm, caring feel of it that it was Dorian's blood.

Dorian worked with his father so intently to try to bring him back, a project the like of which neither of them had committed to previously. New spells, painstakingly researched; new concoctions, made with rare ingredients fetched from the far ends of the world at great price. Some made Felix feel worse, some made him feel better, some merely made him vomit. Yet the ones that made him feel better always faded in their effect, and never worked as well the second time. As the first year passed, and the second began to drag on, Felix grew increasingly weary of all of it. Of being poked, his blood drawn, of heavy spells and vile potions. Of being kept up late in his bed, exhausted, by the groaning and howling of summoned spirits, by the heavy, nauseous smells of brewing. _What good is life_ , he grumbled once to Dorian, _if it's going to be like this all the time?_

Thus was the idea was planted, and once it was, it was more and more difficult to avoid it. Felix rejected potions and spells, instead leaving the house whenever his condition waned enough to allow it, Dorian bolstering him with a little blood magic. He came to accept that he would not be in the world for much longer, and it made everything so much more sweet - the colors of the market, the songs of the wandering bards, the taste of pastries bought hot from a vendor, the feel of the warm, salty water on his hand when they sat on the rocks together down by the harbor. The sound of Dorian's voice, the feel of his embrace. And it should be the feel of his father's embrace, as well, but the man turned from him, complaining that Felix was too delicate, that he was on the verge of a breakthrough again, and again, and _again_...

Felix never fought with his father, but the tension grew as the man refused to accept what Felix demanded - to let this dream go, to value these last days with his son. It was a very brotherly thing for Dorian to be the one to force the issue, but it blew up like a poorly set spell. Felix lay in his bed, exhausted from a downturn in his condition, trying not to listen to their raised, angry voices, until he could no longer stay awake. And the next morning, Dorian was gone.

A few letters made it through, but they were clearly written as if expected to be intercepted. Perhaps most of them had been. All Felix could tell was that Dorian was not well, and it broke his heart, exacerbated his illness. Felix wrote back with equal care, not knowing whether the letters would even be seen. His last letter to Dorian mentioned the latest news - _I have heard you have gone south, have you seen this breach that messengers have spoken of?_ Spoken of in breathless, hyperbolic tones... surely it could not be as they said? The veil ripped open in a sky-rift as large as a village, darkspawn pouring out?

The rush from Minrathous to Redcliffe was done entirely with magic - a situation that would have bothered Felix enough on its own, even if it were not for the taste of that magic. A taste as vile as the worst potion he had ever forced himself to drink, a magic that made the taint in his blood roil and seethe, a magic that left him reeling when they arrived. He could not find a chamber-pot fast enough to empty his stomach into, and then to stay over as his body tried to force more out of himself than was inside...

He rested in the little tavern room (smelling of dead fish) at the insistence of his father, but the building hummed and throbbed with that same vile magic. It was his good fortune that this coast-side village had a decorative coil of rope on the wall, one that was nonetheless functional enough to let him lower himself carefully out of the window and walk away from that dark building, shivering in the cold coastal air, yet breathing its clean, sharp, salty dampness with gratitude. A gratitude that swelled into delight as a very familiar body embraced him, as a familiar voice asked if he really should be wandering a sailor's town alone, some decadent man might find him...

* * *

The Inquisitor was... plain, really. Just a man. A _Ferelden_ , a dog-lord, a barbarian, as all in Tevinter had been assured the southerners were. And his bloodstained, ichor-dripping armor did not help that image. Yet he spoke well, and charmingly, and could seal the Rifts, and Felix, with his knowledge of Dorian's armour, could see that it was tested indeed around this man. And a familiar tightness around his eyes - _Is this man normal? Will he be disgusted that I prefer men? Will he be disgusted that I am a mage? That I am Tevinter?_ So many ways for him to hurt Dorian, and despite his care for that daring, talented, fragile man, Felix had no way to help, no way to protect him. Not when he couldn't even protect his own father.

* * *

Felix did not regret that Dorian was not there. The man was doing what was needed; the whole world needed him, now, not to mention a few other connected worlds, it seemed. Felix _did_ regret that his father was not there, that he was in prison, that he had turned away from sharing his son's last days in the name of trying to steal more days for him than the world had granted...

So it was to Dorian that Felix wrote his last letter, after his speech to the magistrates. His own work was done. _Do not mourn; we have wasted far too much time with that already. I would prefer to live, but I won't, and I am comfortable - warmer in the sweet Tevinter air than you are, no doubt, with a good glass of wine in my hand, and the sounds of the market in the distance. I'm grateful beyond measure I could share those with you. Rejoice, with me, that we had the time together_.

A sip of that good wine, a breath of that sweet air, and Felix could finally relax, could finally rest.


End file.
